


One more for the road

by Blake



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Daddy Issues, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humanized Cars, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, PWP, Porn, Public Sex, doc is 70, lightning is 30
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 10:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18342089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: “You know, I agreed to drive you to the track because you need the rest, not so you could fulfill some childhood fantasy of watching me drive a car.”





	One more for the road

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, my first humanized Cars fic! aka all I ever want to write ever again. If large age difference makes you uncomfortable, please don't read it! I love thinking about thirty-year-old Lightning McQueen exploring his identity from he safety of this loving relationship.
> 
> May I direct you to these two lovely posts concerning how I imagine their humanized selves to look: [Doc Hudson](https://newleafover.tumblr.com/post/183929252036/alienfuckeronmain-so-my-wonderful-friend) and [Montgomery "Lightning" McQueen](https://newleafover.tumblr.com/post/183929330046/alienfuckeronmain-i-dont-mind-my-readers)

Doc hasn’t even finished sliding the key into the ignition when Lightning lets out a throaty moan.

“Christs’ sake, kid, it’s a Ford Focus.” Doc shakes his head, chuckling as he gets her to turn over. He hasn’t driven cars with any romance to them in years and such a deliberate choice deserves recognition. “Nothing sexy to see here.”

“I beg to differ.” It’s cute, how Lightning has started to change his vocabulary, trying to stretch his mouth around bigger words. It’s attractive, the way he’s visibly changed since he figured out he could get in Doc’s bed whenever he wanted it, since he figured out he _wanted_ in Doc’s bed. It’s sexy, the way he hasn’t changed at all. “Do you have any idea how sexy it is that you don’t drive an Avalon? Or an Impala? You know, with gold exterior? Leather interior?” 

Lightning now has one foot propped on the dash, right over the airbag, where you’re not supposed to put your foot in case there’s a crash and your knee gets jammed straight through your ribcage and into your lungs. His other leg is spilled out onto the gear shift, so Doc just rolls out of the driveway in neutral so he doesn’t have to touch the inside of Lightning’s knee until he's ready to shift into second. “Might stop at the Toyota dealership on the way back from the race, then,” he teases, shifting into third and gunning it. He spares half a glance over at Lightning’s face, which is twisted in some combination of pain and arousal.

“No,” Lightning whines, spreading his legs even further so his knee is tucked up above the parking brake. “Shit, you know, I’d still think you were hot driving a gold Avalon. Going five over speed bumps on your way to the old people’s home. Shit.”

“I’ve been _going five_ over speed bumps since the day I started med school, kid. Safety first.” Doc shifts into fourth briefly, then fifth, letting his cramping clutch leg stretch out and rest.

“God, you’re so hot.”

“You know, I agreed to drive you to the track because you need the rest, not so you could fulfill some childhood fantasy of watching me drive a car.” Doc looks at his own reflection in the rearview, just to see his age again, just to see how crystalized his blue eyes have become, to see the bristled gray on the mustached lip that this golden boy somehow like to chew and suck on.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lightning shift in his seat, his loose blue jeans twisting as he angles his body towards the steering wheel. “Does it really still count as a _childhood_ fantasy if I’m getting hard?”

Doc resists the urge to turn and check the front of those awful jeans. It’s easy enough. He’s had decades to perfect the art of pretending, of not-looking. “I don’t know; I’m not the one with daddy issues.” It’s a lie, but Lightning doesn’t have to know that.

The lie doesn’t really hit like the distractingly low blow it was intended to be. Lightning whimpers and swivels his hips into the air before grinding back down against the edge of the seat. Doc has created a monster. The world could survive a Lightning McQueen with a great ass in blue jeans just fine, but the world doesn’t stand a chance against a Lightning McQueen who’s _aware_ just how pretty his ass looks, how much it drives old men crazy just to get their fingers in it, how much it makes old men’s mouth water when he grinds it down against the ridge of their passenger seats. Doc doesn’t stand a chance.

He looks away from the road just to examine Lightning’s posture, measuring. Then he turns back to the endless, empty two lanes. “If we crash, the airbag is pushing your knee straight through your skull.”

“Good thing you’re the best driver out here,” Lightning sighs, sounding like he’s practically in ecstasy. Doc tries not to take any comfort in the compliment, but it’s true: he’s never once been in an accident out on the road. He drives safe. Fast, sure, but safe. He takes care of himself. He’ll take good care of his boy. “Take good care of me,” Lightning mumbles, probably not reading Doc’s thoughts.

Doc’s hand tightens on the steering wheel. Lightning groans, surging up just to brush his thumb across Doc’s rod-straight wrist before falling back into the clutches of his seatbelt. The white hairs on the back of Doc’s forearm rise up, trying to follow the touch that didn’t even reach them.

He speeds so fast that it’s only another minute before he’s braking into the banked on-ramp and punching it up to eighty to slide easily into the left-lane traffic on the interstate. By the time he’s turned his stiff neck back around from checking his blind spot, Lightning’s jeans are unzipped and his hand is stuffed down the front of his boxers.

Doc has had decades to perfect the art of pretending, but he has also created a monster. “What are you doing,” he says, his intended condescension undermined by the crack in his voice.

“What am I _doing_? What do you _think_ I’m doing, I’m jacking off to the Fabulous Hunt Hudson driving me to Kentucky in his car. I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me this long.”

Doc licks his dry lower lip. He always feels so strange when Lightning brings up this version of him that kids like Lightning grew up admiring, this version that feels like a stranger to Doc and simultaneously his innermost private self that was never supposed to be remembered by some twenty-something, blond hot-shot with freckles and a cockiness Doc hasn’t seen since it was 1954 and he was looking in a mirror. “Didn’t know you wanted to go to Kentucky that badly.”

That just makes Lightning whine in the back of his throat and stroke his cock faster, like he _enjoys_ Doc giving him a hard time, which, Doc knows, he _does_. 

Doc uses the master control embedded in the driver-side door to roll down Lightning’s window, laughing at the way he sputters and abruptly pulls his hand out of his pants like the paparazzi are driving right alongside them at eighty miles an hour. But then Doc looks closer, at the strands of Lightning’s strawberry-blond hair whipping around his face, at the gusts of wind making fists in the collar of his t-shirt, pulling to expose the freckles and moles scattered across his pale chest. There’s something so free about the sight, so moving, so beautiful. 

Lightning rolls the window back up with his own button. Doc laughs out at the road, watches a car weave through trucks to pass him on the right. Lightning is no exhibitionist, not in most senses of the word, and definitely not in the sense that he gets off on strangers looking through an open window to see his hand down his pants. But he sure as hell loves being told he’s pretty, being examined up and down by someone who thinks he’s attractive. It’s part of why his sexual experiences with women never went anywhere fast, because the world is weird and generally teaches women that they’re sexual objects and never subjects, and so the only way Lightning got looked at by women in ways that felt good was when they were his idolizing fans, and they didn’t even _see_ the moles, too blinded by what they expected to see to actually see what’s there. Lightning’s talked about this a lot, because Doc is apparently crucial to his late-twenties sexual awakening. Apparently, he likes the way Doc listens to him. Apparently, he loves the way Doc looks at him.

“You look good,” Doc sighs, leaning into the gas pedal a bit. “With your legs spread for me, riding in my car.”

“Yeah?” Lightning slides his hand back home, so clearly fishing for Doc to keep talking. “I do?” he prompts, when he doesn’t get the response he wanted fast enough.

Doc lets him get a few more strokes in, the bulge of his fist snagging on the waistband of his boxers when he lingers to rub just under the head each time, the same way he always does it. “Yes, you do,” Doc eventually concedes, watching every twitch and clench out of the corner of his eye. “Look like you belong there, sitting shotgun in my ride, prettier’n gold.” It’s teasing, it’s what Lightning wants to hear, but it’s also true. Doc used to wonder why he’d bothered living past the age of seventy, unless it was just to serve the public good and pass on wisdom that no one listened to. In the past year, he’s realized he had to live this long to have a gorgeous man shamelessly taking up space in his house, his life, his _car_. Doc’s pretty sure he’s lived so miserably long just to have Lightning McQueen sit shotgun in his Ford Focus on the way to a race five states over that he’s going to win without a question, because he’s listened to all the wisdom Doc has to give.

“You really wanna come like that, though?”

“What’d’ya mean?” Lightning bites his lip real pretty, staring so intently at Doc’s hands that it takes him a full minute to find the look on Doc’s face, the patient, suggestive arch of his eyebrow.

“Oh, I just thought you might want to get a few fingers up in you, maybe a mouth around your cock before you came.”

Lightning’s hand goes still, but Doc can tell it’s the instinct of being _too close_ more than it’s a pause for thoughtful consideration. 

“Just seems a waste, letting you get your come all over your boxers when I could swallow for you instead.”

Lightning whimpers. The muscles of his forearm strain as he squeezes, and Doc feels a surge of arousal at the sight, because it’s all too easy to recall what Lightning’s touch feels like. “Fuck, Doc, why’re you teasing…” 

“Not teasing,” Doc solemnly assures him.

“Unless you’re gonna pull over at the next rest stop and fuck me in the backseat, you’re fucking teasing.”

They’re at a twenty-second following distance with not a truck in sight so it’s safe for Doc to turn his head, let Lightning see the plain and daring simplicity of his gaze. And maybe a touch of amusement, too. It’s just funny, the different ways they’re prudish, the different ways they’re scared. Fucking a guy behind condensation-fogged windows in the darkest off-road corner of a rest stop, miles away from the nearest law enforcement, surrounded by truckers who’d rather catch five minutes of sleep than look twice at a rocking car—that upsets Doc so much less than letting men into his home where he’s cornered, where anonymity doesn’t exist, where neighbors can always see. It makes him so much less nervous than letting men who look like Lightning McQueen stay more than five minutes in his town, long enough to make a mark, to expose the marks that are already there. 

“Twenty-seven miles,” Lightning reads off the sign they drive past listing the next rest stop. He says it like his breath is being punched out of him.

“Think you can make it?” Doc asks, concentrating on driving instead of on the slow withdrawal of Lightning’s hand, the careful process of zipping up his jeans.

“Think _you_ can?” The words are laughable for a second, but then Lightning’s face is in his lap, mouth hot and open and feeling, like it’s a delicious challenge to map out familiar terrain through a thick layer of fabric.

“Pretty sure,” Doc promises with all the condescension he can muster with his cock growing hard under the distant, dry touch of Lightning’s tongue. He lets one hand off the wheel, slides his fingers into the perpetually sweat-damp cowlicks of Lightning’s hair, and holds him down.

Twenty minutes later, Doc drives past the rest stop. It looks crowded, and he doesn’t want Lightning to worry more than he has to about being seen. Lightning’s too busy sucking Doc’s fingers deep in his throat to notice and complain, so Doc just silently brakes and rolls down the next exit and finds a shaded area on the shoulder of the two-lane highway. His hand is wet with spit when he pulls away to park and kill the engine, and the slide of it makes his heart stutter, water and electricity. Lightning _wants his love_ , wants to suck on his fingers until he’s drooling, wants to let Doc kiss every inch of him, wants to come apart for him. The knowledge still makes Doc feel crazy every damn time he gets to feel the evidence of it dripping down his wrist.

“Fuck yeah,” Lightning gasps, unfastening his seatbelt and diving straight in, pushing his mouth right onto Doc’s, swollen and ready. Doc breathes the kiss in deep like smoke, grounds himself in the rapid filter through his veins down to his fingertips. He needs all the grounding he can get when Lightning reaches across him to pull the seat-adjusting lever and then pushes Doc down, hand flat on the buttons of his shirt, until the seat won’t lie back any further.

Lightning climbs right into his lap. He’s always so eager, this kid. This thirty-year-old man, throwing himself into his newly found identity like he’s trying to make up for lost time, like he thinks he’s lived enough to have lost time at all. 

“You can start with two,” he says wetly against Doc’s cheek, as if he knows what’s good for him. Doc’s fingers twitch involuntarily against the back of the jeans Lightning’s struggling out of. He should have taken them off before straddling the driver’s seat, but Doc’s not complaining about the hot, tight-muscled body writhing inefficiently on top of him or the occasional grunt of frustration against his neck.

Doc has minimal confidence that it’s going to work, but Lightning’s stubborn determination has surprised him more than once. Lightning even manages to kick the car horn only once before spreading his legs wide across Doc’s waist, cupping his balls to make room for Doc’s hand to slip behind, arching his back impressively so Doc doesn’t have to bend his wrist too much. “Got this all thought out, huh?” Doc tries to say it without his breath coming out noticeably short, but it doesn’t work and it doesn’t matter. Lightning already knows what he does to him. He watches Lightning’s hand working over himself and his mouth waters. He gathers the excess of it in his hand and brings it to the sweat-damp pucker of Lightning’s ass, lightly stroking up and down where he’s spread. “Have you thought about how _this_ is the first thing visible through that windshield?” He doesn’t have a single suspicion that anyone will get close enough to notice, but he wants to make sure Lightning is informed, that he’s not doing anything he’ll regret afterwards.

“Nobody’ll see.” Lightning sounds downright impatient, rubbing the back of his skull against the car’s ceiling until his hairs stand at attention, held up by static. “Come on.” He rubs back against Doc’s fingers until denying the touch seems like a scientifically impossible thing. With a gasp on his own lips, Doc gives him one finger, _not_ two, the slide slow and awful from the lack of lube and the way Lightning’s ass always hugs so tight.

Lightning doesn’t complain about it being fewer fingers than he asked for.

And later, he even fits himself down by the pedals, the muscle on either side of his spine digging into the wheel so deeply Doc can see the indent it through the cotton t-shirt. Doc makes it his focal point, worries the sight like a penny between his fingers while Lightning sucks him until he’s coming and then sucks him until he’s clean. 

He licks his lips, Doc can hear the scrape of his tongue across the stubble there, and grins his sideways, white flash of a grin. “ _Now_ do you think your car is sexy?”


End file.
